


i'll be here all week

by Pence



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Slash, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pence/pseuds/Pence
Summary: Jaskier only smiles, offering Geralt a wink as his voice carries over the noise of the tavern. Something old and forgotten stirs in his chest every time he catches Geralt’s eye, carrying warmth throughout his body. And as he notices the smallest twitch of a smile in Geralt’s face, Jaskier allows himself to indulge.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1185





	i'll be here all week

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning, I played maybe an hour of the first game 5 years ago and only have the knowledge of the show backing me up. With that said, I hope you enjoy this. I needed to get juices flowing and decided to explore this relationship. I had fun writing it and I have another idea for a long story, but for now please enjoy. 
> 
> Thank you to [FallLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallLover) for betaing this chapter! <3

Jaskier has lingered in this village for three days, yet his feet still ache.

The blazing hearth dancing at his back warms pleasantly through his trousers, soaking into his thighs as he paces between patrons and barmaids. While songs had long fallen silent from his lips, Jaskier continues to strum tunes.

While the occasional coin still finds its way into his pocket, Jaskier has been playing this game long enough to know that music is nothing without a story. Without a story, without an audience, even the prettiest song becomes little more than background noise to conversation and clinking tankards.

Should he play for laughs, Jaskier could wax poetry about the many Lords (and  _ many _ Ladies) who vied for his head. His tales of bared thighs, heaving chests, and bunching skirts would send half the men in this tavern to the local brothel before daybreak.

Yet nothing compared to stories of adventure—of monsters, heroes, and overcoming the odds. He craves the sort of attention audiences paid as they listened to heroes spearing their swords through the hearts of demons. Of grueling, magnificent tales of dueling kingdoms or cruel monsters banished from these lands. Those were the songs that continued to play long after his fingers stilled upon his lute. The songs that will undoubtedly outlive him.

Jaskier only has one such song. He wishes every day to forget it.

\----

Five days in this town and the ache in his heels has been forgotten—replaced instead by the violent tug of his heart.

Geralt. He’s here, sitting at the bar and staring idly into the depths of his tankard. Slipped into the tavern in the middle of the song, likely thankful that the crowd’s attention was on their own conversation and the singing bard. But as Jaskier’s song fades to a close, there is no ignoring the hunched shoulders of the behemoth.

The White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken.  _ Witcher. _

All eyes, Jaskier’s included, are on Geralt’s rigid back. Conversations turn to the horrors that travel in the Witcher’s wake. Judgements made based upon legend and warning, alone. Should he choose to, Jaskier could turn the crowd’s opinion with the strum of his lute and sing praises of Geralt’s victories. Of his mercy and tenderness, despite the gruffness of his presence or frozen scowl on his lips.

But Jaskier simply strums quietly, allowing the crowd to cower at Geralt’s presence. Their worries—his worries—are soon abated, when the barman drops coin into the Geralt’s hand. No sooner had Geralt arrived back into Jaskier’s life before the man was back out into the street.

Jaskier retires for the night, pocketing his measly earnings. Geralt hadn’t even looked his way.

\----

Jaskier has remained in this town for a fortnight before Geralt makes his return. It’s early in the afternoon and the bar crowd is small. Merchants are still peddling their wares in the street and field hands have yet to return home from the farms outside the village.

Geralt clutches the head of a lamia by the roots of her hair as as he pushes into the tavern. What little noise there is in the bar vanishes, leaving only Geralt’s heavy footfalls and the soft strum of Jaskier’s lute. 

Once again, Geralt refuses to look his way, but Jaskier has long retired the notion that Geralt might have any desire to try. So Jaskier continues to play, observing the inky monster blood matting Geralt’s silver hair. Jaskier notes the silver buckles on much of Geralt’s armor beg for a decent polish. Jaskier wonders after the dried blood from twin cuts on Geralt’s cheeks.

“A room and beer,” Jaskier hears over his gentle strumming, watching as the barman flinches at the harsh tone. But there is no anger or threat in Geralt’s words. Jaskier only hears exhaustion. “Just tonight.”

The barman puts a bottle on the counter and hands a key over, and Geralt makes his leave. Jaskier was preparing to return his focus to music and his own wine, when he inadvertently catches Geralt’s eye and pauses his strumming. Somber emotion breaks through the stoic exhaustion of Geralt’s expression, drawing lines in his marble face. What was it? Anger? Loneliness? Regret? For once, Jaskier struggles to read the man. And no sooner had their eyes met than Geralt turns away and ascends the staircase.

It takes the remaining dregs of Jaskier’s willpower not to follow. He drains his mug instead.

\-----

The crowd is more jovial that night, especially with the head of the lamia Geralt had slain mounted above the bar. Jaskier laughs as he is spun in a jig by one of the many intoxicated patrons, continuing to manage his lute while dancing. Hands clap in time with his playing as another bard who had ventured into the village a few days prior accompanies on a flute.

It’s a celebration, of sorts. The lamia terrorized the village for some time after she was driven away from her home when armies marched up from the South. Children began to disappear and Jaskier did not doubt that the lamia’s presence had much to do with that.

Despite the cheers and ample alcohol, few turn thankful eyes to the Witcher lingering at the bar. Certainly everyone knows who felled the beast, especially given the failed efforts of the town’s own guard. But Geralt’s reputation for butchery preceded him. Jaskier breaks away from his dance partner, resuming the song he had been singing before being invited into a dance. His eyes travel through the crowd, always landing on Geralt. Unlike before, Geralt watches him with shameless abandon.

Jaskier only smiles, offering Geralt a wink as his voice carries over the noise of the tavern. Something old and forgotten stirs in his chest every time he catches Geralt’s eye, carrying warmth throughout his body. And as he catches the smallest twitch of a smile in Geralt’s face, Jaskier allows himself to indulge.

The song fades with a roar of laughter and cheers, before the room is silenced by the strum of his lute.

__

_ When a humble bard, _

_ Graced a ride-along, _

_ With Geralt of Rivia, _

_ Along came this song. _

Geralt smirks into the lip of his mug. Jaskier beams.

_ \---- _

__

Geralt is gone by the end of the song. The tavern patrons crane their necks, looking for their ‘friend of humanity’ to no avail. It’s no matter. Jaskier watched him retire to bed with only the soft nod of ‘farewell’.

It was more than he could have hoped for. Jaskier continues to play. The night is still young.

\----

Coin jingles in his pocket with every step up the staircase. Jaskier hums a pleasant tune, savoring the pleasure of a heavy weight against his thigh and the warm buzz of alcohol churning in his gut. It would be sun up soon and most of the tavern’s patrons either retreated to bed or their own homes long ago. Only the bar’s staff remained, cleaning the vestiges of last night’s celebration while preparing for the rush of hungry morning customers.

A half-empty bottle dangles from one of his hands. He’d save the rest for whenever he woke up, certain he would regret the amount of beer in which he’d partaken after Geralt’s retreat. When he’d finished playing for the night and his gold was split between himself and the other bard, Jaskier had half a mind to seek out Geralt’s room. To ask after his wellbeing or beg for apology—gods know Geralt was too stubborn to admit his own faults.

Instead, his song had invited curiosity from the tavern’s patrons, and he had been dragged into conversation after conversation. Jaskier sang a different sort of song the rest of the night, speaking of his adventures with the White Wolf. He drew laughs as he told the tale of the genie, the wild witch, and Jaskier’s muteness. Tears followed as he lamented (far too dramatically) what he thought had been the loss of his friend. Further laughter followed when he mentioned finding Geralt bedding the witch, although he refused to give details when asked of the witch’s beauty. He assured them of her homeliness.

Yawning, Jaskier makes it to the top of the landing and moves to unlock the door to his room. He stops, however, when the sound of banging and snarls sound from down the corridor. Dreadfully curious as he was, Jaskier moves towards the commotion, treading carefully to avoid getting caught.

“A Witcher who don’t have coin? Horse shit,” a voice snarls from a cracked doorway, followed by another thump. “Keep lookin’ throw ‘is packs! It’s here somewhere!”

Dread cools the burn of Jaskier’s buzz as he shoulders the door, pushing it open enough to assess the situation. Geralt is held to the ground, blood seeping from his temple and down the curve of his cheek. The sheets of his bed are mussed and speckled with blood. Attacked in his sleep, probably. Three other men occupy the room, two holding Geralt to the ground immobile while another continues to overturn Geralt’s packs.

Stealing a breath, Jaskier closes his eyes before slamming the door open with one last knock of his shoulder. “Fancy a song, gentlemen?” he asks merrily, waving his lute in one hand and the bottle in his other.

The three men startle at Jaskier’s appearance, growing pale in having been caught in the act. “The fu—?“ one of the men holding Geralt starts.

“What about you, Witcher?” Jaskier sing-songs, smiling brightly down to his subdued friend. “Any particular requests?

Geralt stares up at Jaskier, bewilderment briefly crossing his face at the whole situation, particularly Jaskier’s relaxed posturing. But Geralt figures things out quickly. “Hm. Got any about the consequences of robbing a Witcher?”

“Ooh, yes. It’s very ‘first-draft’, if you will,” Jaskier sings, offering a playful nod of his head. “How did it start again…?”

Irritated and confused, the acting ringleader of the trio motions wildy to the man tasked to search the room. “What the fuck are ya doin’? Get this imbecile out of—“

Jaskier grins widely and exclaims, “Oh, yes! Now I remember!” before promptly hurling his bottle at the ringleader’s head. As glass shatters against the thug’s face, ale getting into his eyes, Geralt knocks him off his shoulders before turning his attention to wrestling the knife away from his throat.

Unfortunately, Jaskier could do little to help as he was rushed by the searching thug, who was holding a knife. Quick thinking has Jaskier raising his own sort of weapon. Jaskier mourns his lute as the knife catches within polished wood, lodging itself in the snapping strings. Before the thug could jerk the knife back, Jaskier uses whatever strength one could possibly have while half-drunk and busts the lute into the thug’s nose.

The thug howls with pain as he stumbles back, hand going to his bleeding nose. He has little time to nurse the injury before Jaskier strikes him again, wielding his damaged lute like a club. By the third strike, Jaskier is certain the blow to the man’s head had robbed him of consciousness—but, being better-safe-than-sorry, Jaskier strikes again. And again.

And would have likely struck again had a strong hand not caught the neck of his lute. “Enough.”

Jerking his hands back from his lute, Jaskier pauses mid-stumble upon finding Geralt standing at his shoulder. A nervous smile tugs at Jaskier’s cheeks as he meets Geralt’s eye, an uncomfortable feeling creeping through his gut upon realizing just how idiotic he must have appeared beating up a man with a lute.

The two other thugs lay prone at the other end of the room, although the rise and fall of their chests exists as proof enough that they still live.

“Right,” Jaskier breathes, reaching up with a trembling hand to scrub at his eyes. “Good to see they didn’t skewer you, Ger—”

“You are an imbecile,” Geralt growls. Jaskier drops the lute as Geralt advances, stride too long for Jaskier to retreat at equal pace. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Geralt fists Jaskier’s tunic, pulling the bard onto the tips of his toes while glaring into Jaskier’s face. 

It takes a moment for Jaskier’s mind to catch up with him before he’s scoffing in offense. “Dung-head! I saved your life!”

“You saved nothing,” Geralt huffs, dropping Jaskier back to his feet as Geralt releases his shirt. “I had the situation handled.”

An offended gasp leaves Jaskier’s lips as he leans an arm against the doorframe for the room, the other placed to his hip. “Oh yes! How foolish am I to forget that the bloody White Wolf can survive a slit throat! What a fool I am, an  _ imbecile, _ to come to a frien—to  _ someone _ in need!”

Having turned away during Jaskier’s rant, Geralt shakes his head and begins to collect his things. He remains quiet aside from a small huff when Jaskier goes silent.

Jaskier watches him collect his things, repacking them despite the thugs bleeding onto the floorboards around him. Jaskier bites his lip and sighs, shoulders relaxing, minutely. “Shall I fetch the guard?”

“Don’t bother,” Geralt mutters, tossing one of his packs on his bed before moving onto the next. Even from an odd angle, Jaskier can tell he is not pleased to find a few of his potions shattered. “They’ll only believe I am the culprit. I’ll leave before these men wake up.”

Jaskier frowns, drumming his fingers on the door before ultimately dropping his arm to the side. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he mutters, stepping backwards back into the hall. The farewell is trapped on the tip on his tongue, unwilling to acknowledge any finality in their meeting.

Geralt says nothing, continuing to pack, and Jaskier makes a quick escape. He doubts he’ll sleep well.

\-----

Jaskier’s head barely hits the pillow before knuckles rap at his door.

Shuffling the blankets from his body, Jaskier stumbles up with a groan, making his way to the door. “If you’re coming to ask after the bloodied men down the hall, I haven’t the faintest—” Pulling open the door, Jaskier blinks as he is met with the battered remains of his lute.

He’s quick to catch it as it is dropped into his arms. Geralt watches him, unamused. “Pack your things.”

Jaskier doesn’t move. “Pardon?”

With a huff and a grunt, Geralt drops his packs to push past Jaskier, beginning to collect the articles of clothing Jaskier had scattered on the floor during his stay.

Jaskier groggily clutches his lute to his chest as he follows Geralt around the room, trying to wrap his mind around why he might have to pack. Had he been dragged into danger? By whom? The thugs or an angry husband? Why would Geralt care? “Whoa—what? What?! Stop—stop touching my—Geralt, what are you d—?!”

“The nearest town in which we can get your lute prepared is a three day ride,” Geralt grumbles, tossing the first of Jaskier’s packs to his feet as he begins on the second. “I cannot stay and I owe you a debt. Now pack.”

“You owe me nothing,” Jaskier mutters, dropping his lute onto the bed as Geralt grimaces at the many empty bottles surrounding the bed. “And, even if you did, I wouldn’t want anyth—”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier tenses, staring at Geralt as the man watches him with a deep frown. He sighs when, for once, Jaskier is left speechless. “When I… sent you away… That was unfair and cruel. The things I said cannot be taken back… But, if you allowed the opportunity, I would… I would like to travel with you again. At least to fix your lute.”

Jaskier watches Geralt, noting the straining vein in his throat and the way he refused to meet his eyes. After a long and uncomfortable pause, Jaskier can’t help but snort, “You look as if you’re attempting to shit a harpy’s egg.”

Geralt’s shoulders relax despite the roll of his eyes, turning back to packing Jaskier’s belongings. “I do not.”

“Is being kind truly that painful?” Jaskier sings, handing a few items to Geralt that he had missed mid-pack. Geralt only grunts, but Jaskier is not blind to the soft twitch of his lips.

Packing completed, Geralt hoists both bags up onto his shoulders before moving towards the door. Jaskier does not follow. “I never said I would go with you.”

Geralt glances back, sizing Jaskier up. “…Please.”

Jaskier cannot help the smile that stretches across his face. Scooping up the battered lute, he follows Geralt to the door. “Onward to adventure, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought. Sorry about the lack of kisses. )': 
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on twitter, you can find me [@phckpence](https://twitter.com/phckpence)


End file.
